And animal spirits, that still in your dances
Come bringing me visions to comfort my care,
Now fetch me a concert-imparadise air.”1

Then a wind like a storm out of Eden, came pouring

Fierce into my room, and made tremble the flooring;

And filled with a sudden impetuous trample

Of heaven, its corners; and swelled it to ample Dimensions to breathe in, and space for all power; Which falling as suddenly, lo! the sweet flower Of an exquisite fairy-voice opened its blessing; And ever and aye, to its constant addressing, There came, falling in with it, each in the last, Flageolets one by one, and flutes blowing more fast,

And hautboys and clarinets, acrid of reed,

And the violin, smoothlier sustaining the speed
As the rich tempest gathered, and busy-ringing

moons

Of tambours, and huge basses, and giant bassoons; And the golden trombone,-that darteth its tongue Like a bee of the gods; nor was absent the

gong,

Like a sudden, fate-bringing, oracular sound,
Of earth's iron genius, burst up from the ground,
A terrible slave, come to wait on his masters
The gods, with exultings that clang like disasters;
And then spoke the organs, the very gods they,
Like thunders that roll on a wind-blowing day;

1 "Imparadised in one another's arms."-Milton. The word is of Italian origin.

And taking the rule of the roar in their hands,
Lo, the Genii of Music came out of all lands;
And one of them said, "Will my lord tell his

slave,

What concert 'twould please his Firesideship to have?"

Then I said, in a tone of immense will and plea

sure,

"Let orchestras rise to some exquisite measure; And let there be lights and be odours; and let The lovers of music serenely be set;

And then with their singers in lily-white stoles, And themselves clad in rose-colour, fetch me the

souls

Of all the composers accounted divinest,

And, with their own hands, let them play me their finest."

And lo! was performed my immense will and pleasure,

And orchestras rose to an exquisite measure;
And lights were about me, and odours, and set
Were the lovers of music all wondrously met;
And then, with their singers in lily-white stoles,
And themselves clad in rose-colour, in came the
souls

Of all the composers accounted divinest,

And, with their own hands, did they play me their finest.

Oh, truly, was Italy heard then, and Germany,
Melody's heart, and the rich brain of harmony;

Pure Paisiello, whose airs are as new

Though we know them by heart, as may-blossoms

and dew;

And Nature's twin son, Pergolesi; and Bach,
Old father of fugues, with his endless fine talk;
And Gluck,' who saw gods; and the learned sweet
feeling

Of Haydn; and Winter, whose sorrows are healing;
And gentlest Corelli, whose bowing seems made
For a hand with a jewel; and Handel arrayed
In Olympian thunders, vast lord of the spheres,
Yet pious himself, with his blindness in tears,
A lover withal, and a conqueror, whose marches
Bring demi-gods under victorious arches ;

Then Arne, sweet and tricksome; and masterly
Purcell,

Lay-clerical soul; and Mozart universal,

But chiefly with exquisite gallantries found, With a grove in the distance of holier sound; Nor forgot was thy dulcitude, loving Sacchini ; Nor love, young and dying, in shape of Bellini ;

"I see gods ascending out of the earth."-Vide the passage of "Saul and the Witch of Endor," in the Bible. A sense of the god-like and supernatural always appears to me to attend the noble and affecting music of Gluck.

2 It seems a fashion of late in musical quarters to undervalue Arne. His defects are obvious when contrasted with the natural recitative and unsought melodies of the great Italians, and with the rich instrumentation of Mozart and the modern operas; but may it be permitted an unprofessional lover of music to think that there are few melodies more touchingly fluent than "Water Parted," and very few songs indeed more original, charming, and to the purpose, than his "Cuckoo Song," and "Where the Bee Sucks?"

Nor Weber, nor Himmel, nor mirth's sweetest

name,

Cimarosa; much less the great organ-voiced fame Of Marcello, that hushed the Venetian sea;

And strange was the shout, when it wept, hearing thee,

Thou soul full of grace as of grief, my heart-cloven,
My poor, my most rich, my all-feeling Beethoven.

O'er all, like a passion, great Pasta1 was heard,
As high as her heart, that truth-uttering bird;
And Banti was there; and Grassini, that goddess!
Dark, deep-toned, large, lovely, with glorious
bodice ;

And Mara; and Malibran, stung to the tips

Of her fingers with pleasure; and rich Fodor's lips;
And manly in face as in tone, Angrisani;
And Naldi, thy whim; and thy grace, Tramezzani;
And was it a voice, or what was it? say,
That like a fallen angel beginning to pray,
Was the soul of all tears and celestial despair?
Paganini it was, 'twixt his dark flowing hair.

So now we had instrument, now we had song:
Now chorus, a thousand-voiced, one-hearted throng;
Now pauses that pampered resumption, and now—
But who shall describe what was played us, or how?

1 Pasta, who is not dead, is here killed for the occasion, being the singer of the greatest genius it has ever been my good fortune to hear. Her tones latterly failed her, and she may have always had superiors in some other respects; but for power to move the heart and the imagination I never witnessed her equal. The reason was, that possessing both of the most genuine sort, she cared for nothing but truth.

'Twas wonder, 'twas transport, humility, pride; 'Twas the heart of the mistress that sat by one's

side;

'Twas the graces invisible moulding the air

Into all that is shapely, and lovely, and fair,
And running our fancies their tenderest rounds
Of endearments and luxuries, turned into sounds,
'Twas argument even, the logic of tones;

'Twas memory, 'twas wishes, 'twas laughter, 'twas

moans;

'Twas pity and love, in pure impulse obeyed; 'Twas the breath of the stuff of which passion is made.

And these are the concerts I have at my will; Then dismiss them, and patiently think of your "bill."

(Aside) Yet Lablache, after all, makes me long to go, still.

THE ROYAL LINE.

["Companion," Feb. 6th, 1828. "Works," 1860. Kent,

1889.]

William I.

William II.

Henry I.

Stephen.

The sturdy Conq'ror, politic, severe;
Light-minded Rufus, dying like the

deer;

Beau-clerc, who everything but virtue knew ;

Stephen, who graced the lawless sword he drew;